


Ties That Bind - SPN Remix

by spacewolfcub



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, F/M, Fade to black M/M, Implied F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 08:07:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacewolfcub/pseuds/spacewolfcub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From their parent's adolescence until their own, this is the story of Sam and Dean Winchester.</p>
<p>Shamelessly based on the social contract described by Keira Marcos' SGA BDSM AU.<br/>See Notes for detailed description of this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ties That Bind - SPN Remix

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Ties That Bind - SGA AU](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/26888) by Keira Marcos. 



> SOCIAL CONTRACT:  
> Most people are expected to: be bisexual and have explored that, have Dominant or submissive personalities (dynamics) and fully indulge them at the very least 'in bed' though they frequently spill into every aspect of their lives, be open minded about polyamoury and indulge in it, collar as legally binding pairings, marry as a more thorough and explicit binding pairing contract where only two people are allowed, use some degree of BDSM to fully express their dynamic, commonly willing to engage in some form of public nudity or sex.
> 
> Honour is a huge deal; think harikari and blood feuds. The public legal system includes corporal punishment as a 'lighter' sentence. Minors are incredibly strictly off-limits to adults.
> 
> Slavery was abolished in most of the first world, but it was submissives of all colours that used to be slaves. Women's Liberation was actually Submissive's Liberation. Equality for switches, non-dynamics, asexuals, monosexuals, monogamous, etc becomes the newest frontier and sex/gender was never in history what defined a person's worth.
> 
> UNBETAED.  
> I just wrote this yesterday and don't know any betas for this fandom. So I toss it out into the world to sink or swim. All concrit welcome. Please let your Grammar Cop and Spelling Cop badges shine. 
> 
> COMPLETE.  
> In the sense that it is exactly what it says on the label with no actual cliffhangers or loose threads. It's canon-compliant enough that you won't die from suspense about what happens next even if I don't fulfill the implied promise of future PWP. You know the broad brushstrokes. Heh, strokes. 
> 
> SEQUELS.  
> If I manage this, they will be choose-your-own-OTP. Therefore, those two extra-close moments in this first work are not to be considered anything but Gen between the boys, even if their emotional handicap is glaring in a much more touch-oriented AU (note direct parallels to babyhood). Why is nobody allowed to cuddle anymore, dammit?  
> -Planned: Destiel  
> -Planned: Wincest  
> -Requests? Or just write your own and link to this as the start a new storyline.  
> More blabbing at EndNotes.

* * *

**Mary Campbell**

The shouts could be heard nextdoor, even though the farmsteads were as far apart as is usual in most rural areas. The neighbours paid it no mind; it was to be expected when a dominant child reached adolescence. Eventually the power games would settle and young Mary would realize she must strike out on her own to find happiness. 

Of course, that assumed old man Campbell even knew how to let go. 

Samuel Campbell was of the scandalous school of thought that all child-bearers should be naturally submissive and any different disposition was merely an aberration caused by the poison of public education. This was not spoken of in polite company, you must understand, but everybody knew. 

It was also speculated that he firmly believed in monosexuality, since he only ever invited female submissives into his home, but that kind of scurrilous rumour was only communicated by heavy emphasis on innocuous phrases and significant glances. This was 1973, and such deviance was not an accusation to throw around lightly. 

His one saving grace was that he was not one of those poor non-dynamic souls, but the town was of the opinion that such "damage" would be preferable to deal with in the community than whatever had obviously caused his current views. And deal they did. After all, a dominant could hardly be expected to admit weakness and seek help for his own failings except in the most extreme circumstances. 

Poor Mary was the one worst hit by the fallout. Other dominant children mercilessly taunted her to "stop acting out and be a proper sub" and submissive children were never allowed to go on playdates with her; as if her father's craziness might contaminate them second-hand. As she grew older, everyone drew a sigh of relief at her obvious attraction to both genders and her unwavering knowledge of her own dynamic needs. She only brought a girl home once, after giving her a promise-collar to make sure she'd be "safe" from Samuel... 

The man was a monster. Intense discussions about an intervention were exchanged between dominants while subs looked on with serious eyes once that girl ran home crying for her parents to remove the collar - Samuel had decided his 'submissive' daughter had brought along a toy for him to play with, marked and all. When the girl had not consented Samuel had rained 'discipline' down on Mary for daring to pretend to own another submissive, being one herself, and the girl had run screaming. 

Intervention turned out to not be necessary for the next few years. Mary acted out at home but continued to be a model citizen and dom in public — though she was seen as a bit of a heartbreaker for never collaring the subs she played with. Everyone understood when her marriage and first official collaring took place only after her parents had passed away. 

For the first time since Samuel had shown up in town, Campbell was a name attached only to the kind of gossip that brought smiles.

* * *

**Johnny Winchester**

Coming home on leave was supposed to be a relief, but for this young marine in particular "home" was merely a different warzone. 

His mother and dominant parent greeted him warmly at the door. His father, coolly nodded from the other side of the room — they never stood close unless they wanted to pick a fight about who should walk behind and to the left. 

As soon as the door closed behind him, Amanda Winchester began chastising him for letting his hair be clipped unflatteringly short when he knew he was coming home and people would _see_ him. And not even wearing a bit of lip colour, what would the neighbours _think?_ Why was his skin so dry? Had he even been keeping up with his skin care routine? He looked so underfed! She could count his ribs! Doms didn't like bony subs, as he well knew; no padding to absorb a good whipping. If she'd told him once she'd told him a thousand times. How did he expect to collar well if—? 

John Collins chose that moment to jump in with half-digested ideas on the sub-lib movement, which he didn't seem to really believe in until it made good ammunition against his wife. Yes, he had not even taken her surname — which he now touted as his own ground-breaking show of strength and liberation, but at the time had actually only shown how ill-suited he was to be Amanda's submissive. In revenge, Amanda had only given her own surname to their only son. Johnny's first name was really just a way to salt the wound. 

Once the dust settled from the first battle, Johnny was once again acknowledged. It was unnatural for his dominant parent to feed him and fuss over unpacking his duffel, but he was well used to his mother stealing his father's role. 

Another battle before dinner time truce, then his sad-eyed father wandered out to the garage. 

John might be an argumentative submissive but he was still predisposed to obedience. Once upon a time he'd obeyed his young Mistress, who was a competent mechanic, and agreed to learn her trade so he could help her start her own business. He dreamed of making it profitable enough that she could take maternity leave and then he could retire to take care of the children. John was the type of sub that chafed at giving up his body rights but his desires for the future were entirely conservative. 

Then came marriage, and a son, and disillusionment. Amanda insisted she must breast-feed their son and this required she be the one to stay home, then that little Johnny was too used to her care and he had to be older before she could possibly stop being his primary caregiver. Excuses flowed down the years and Johnny was a teenager before she went back to work in a purely administrative position. She, of course, had sole ownership of the garage and the house. If at any point John had tried to leave she would have fired him and the courts would have seen her as the only parent able to provide. He would have lost his son... so he stayed. 

Johnny naturally soaked in his dominant parent's attention as a child, but as a teenager he sought closeness with the parent who shared his dynamic needs. He learned to work around his mother's jealousy, loudly praising her mediocre skills as a mechanic and declaring he wanted to grow up to be just like _her_ and be so awesome that he earned the right to manage his own garage... But it was John's soft smiles that accompanied each new lesson after school, it was his hands that provided closeness so long denied as Johnny was guided through maneuvering around the cramped space of an engine to get at the part that was making "a weird noise". Amanda would never again be "just another grease monkey", after all. 

Every time Johnny was on leave he sought out his father in the garage, a tactical retreat from the front lines. John restored older cars to mint condition in his own time, then sold them. Of course he was not allowed to keep the money, but the peace of solitude and the chance to bond with his son at home was worth the extra work and the money was a good excuse to keep Amanda from chaining him inside — as was her right. John was, after all, a collared submissive. 

At forty-two, John was still a reasonably young man and might find happiness wearing anothers' collar, maybe start a new family. There were no younger siblings in the Winchester household to hold him back.

Johnny never understood why his father had stayed even after Johnny had turned eighteen. 

Not until after the telegram with notice of his death reached him. Not until the notice of Amanda's death reached him. Not until after the end of the war, when he'd gone home to deal with legalities and clear out the house. 

Not until he was burning old receipts and found the invoice for a vasectomy dated shortly after Johnny's first birthday, authorization signed by Amanda Winchester. Paid for her as well, of course. 

Johnny realized then exactly what the cost could be if he gave his body rights up for the sake of being collared.

* * *

**Immoveable Object, meet Unstoppable Force**

John Winchester had been running the Winchester garage for a year now. He didn't have the luxury of hiding in an office doing administration — he constantly had to prove to his dominant employees that he could do their job _and_ do it better than they could. Being a mechanic was not a common vocation for submissives, so his entire staff was dominant except for Daniel, the sweet receptionist. The rest of the time he worked the floor just to keep his skills sharp. 

So he was, as usual, elbows-deep in grease when Daniel brought in a customer. Daniel was fawning extra solicitously this morning, because this early in the day only John and Daniel were working and the woman confidently striding down the stained concrete was obviously dominant. Despite his years in the military and being used to keeping his unruly employees in line, John had never tried to pass as a dominant and his mannerisms and makeup clearly broadcast his dynamic. This could be a problem with conservative types. 

Mary Campbells' ogling and condescending tone grated, but business was business and John didn't want to be seen as too weak to handle what amounted to nothing more than flirting in most people's mind. Also, her 1967 Impala was bound to be a gold-mine for John, judging by how harshly it had obviously been treated. 

If she treated her belongings that way, clearly she was a crap dominant and not worth the effort of returning her interest despite her soft curves and long blonde tresses. Even sparkling grey-green eyes would not convince John to risk his body in her hands. Not even for one night's relief. 

Her interest in him and her lack of appreciation for the machine she drove meant that she was willing to sink her money into it at his garage without worrying about how good a mechanic a submissive could possibly be. That got her the first honest grin John had given her, but not for the reasons she seemed to assume.

* * *

**A match made in Heaven**

John was clearly losing his mind. He quickly paged back trying to find mention of the magical moment he'd met the love of his life but... his diary seemed to have been hijacked by a schizo. 

How could he possibly celebrate their one-month anniversary if he didn't know when it happened? He'd have gone through the work orders at the garage, but it just seemed so unromantic... 

Now his head was full of two weeks of venom for the woman who had so sorely abused an Impala. It was just a car, for chrissakes! And he still only had a vague reference to "last week", "that woman", and "a sweet Impala". If he had not named the car he'd never have known it was Mary he'd been writing about. 

It _was_ his own handwriting. He was mostly certain. 

His sweet, beloved Mary, that cherished every moment he spent at the end of her leash and fretted when he cooked dinner after a full day at the garage lest he overextend himself... had apparently offended him, once upon a time, by appreciating his body and speaking to him sweetly. How could he not have been desperately flattered by her attention? 

The only explanation he could come up with was that he'd been afraid. Yes, afraid Mary had been being kind and didn't really mean to make him fall in love with her. Trying to avoid a broken heart, of course that was it. It'd been submissive intuition, because he had not yet known that on the other side of town she was known for never collaring. Kind Mary, avoiding causing harm to her submissives by taking them too close to her family. That was just like her. 

But now he could offer a steady income and he could buy her a home, and she could keep him safe from her past. Or maybe she'd collar him first, then it'd be her business and income. She could buy whichever home she preferred. Yes, that would be best. 

Would she want to start a family? John didn't want to give up the garage, but it was doing well enough maybe he could hire a couple more people and retire to raise the children. After all, with a dominant owning the business he wasn't needed on the floor to keep everyone in line. Mary would be a stern but fair boss. 

But he had to live in the present, and right now he had an anniversary to plan. Since his fears had rendered his diary an useless resource he'd take his research elsewhere.

* * *

**Mrs. Campbell and her collared submissive**

Sometimes John Campbell felt smothered. Mary refused to indulge John's masochistic tendencies; she loved him too much to hurt him. If anyone had known they would have tsk'd at such a disparity in dynamic mesh but somehow John's love for her never dimmed, and it was enough. 

Except for times like this, when the memory of waking up on cold asphalt covered in blood —that must not have been his own, because he'd been unhurt— haunted him. He needed a little pain to fully take him into his subspace and let him feel safe. Okay, a lot of pain, but still. 

He'd woken up when warm rain drops had fallen on his face, so reminiscent of her tears that night. John snuggled his son, now successfully coaxed to sleep, and stood up to put him to bed. 

Walking past their large kitchen, he gingerly avoided upsetting the tall stacks of containers with finished dishes or prepped ingredients for the catering delivery tomorrow morning. 

Campbell's Catering was really taking off, and John felt a little left out of his wife's success even as he was grateful Mary was so open minded as to let him keep running the garage on his own. Not having her at the helm meant he had to keep to the same hours as before he was collared, but Mary had been a trooper and decided to work from home instead of an industrial kitchen, at least while the children were little. He honestly didn't know how he would have coped as a stay-at-home parent anyway. 

Evenings were daddy time, all two hours they usually got, and Dean-o was an absolute angel. His chubby little fingers were curled around John's work collar (material easy to rip for safety's sake) and drool made a slowly spreading pool on his shirt. They'd had a busy night taking apart an electric toy car bigger than Dean, despite Mary's horror at the mess. 

She insisted John make Dean help clean it up, otherwise Dean would not do it at all. John had no idea why his wife had such a hard time getting their son to comply — as far as he was concerned the Terrible Twos were a myth. 

There'd been stories aplenty from Missouri, the babysitter, about a wayward child who would only eat what he wanted, play the games he wanted, and had to be threatened with his mother's displeasure to force him to wash up before meals and after playing outside. He'd be an unholy dominant terror, they all said. 

John had never met this wayward son of his. He merely smiled at the babysitter and his wife to show his sympathy, and cherished the special bond that obviously only the submissives in the Campbell household shared. 

Dean-o was just too sensitive, acting out — all submissives did that if not handled right. John's special child responded best to him, nothing more, and all was right with the world.

* * *

**Coping within Divine Restraints**

Something woke Mary up. 

She laid in bed wondering where her husband had gone off to. Should she start cuffing him to the bed at night? Sometimes when he had nightmares it helped settle him, and both their sleep patterns were definitely unsettled since little Sammy had come into their lives. Just a few more months... maybe she'd cuff John until then. 

Or maybe not. 

It'd been years since she had stopped Hunting, but it was never really safe to restrain someone in a space with as few protections as this house. She was trying to pass as a civilian, after all, and some protections just could not be explained away or hidden. Both adults in the house unconscious and one neutralized by rope or leather just wasn't an ideal situation with two small children to protect. It was a bad habit to form. 

There were footsteps in the nursery. Mary sighed. If it wasn't John and his sub instincts in overdrive, checking up on the baby hourly, it was Dean and checking that "his" brother was okay. 

That boy was very protective of his little brother — which Mary would have no problem with, if he wasn't also so possessive he cried when he found out that no, Dean could not nurse him. Green eyes had never looked so appropriate as when Dean supervised Sammy's feedings. Even diaper duty was only grudgingly shared with John, who of course also belonged to Dean. 

Sometimes she felt like she had only one son, like she had no claim on the second child she'd given life to. 

The suspiciously familiar rattle of wood reached her ears once, lightly, and Mary resigned herself to getting up and plucking her eldest from where he insisted on wrapping himself around the baby in the crib. She wouldn't be surprised to wake up one day and find that Dean had urine-marked the entire nursery. 

It was to be expected though, from older dominant siblings. Mary consoled herself as she shuffled down the hallway, that he'd grow out of it once Sammy was no longer a wriggling bundle and carved his own place in the family hierarchy. 

Oh. "John?" Why in the world was he dressed to go outside? He was only allowed silk boxers after bedtime — her treat to make up for his life of hard manual labour. 

"Shhhh..." He raised his finger to his lips. An order, not a request. 

"John Campbell!" she hissed, "You did _not_ just shush your Mistress." 

As she stepped purposefully toward him, he turned... 

It was a battle cry, or maybe a scream of fear, maybe despair at realizing there was a supernatural shadow with glowing yellow eyes in her baby's nursery and she was unarmed, without backup, maybe it was an instinctual need to raise the alarm and call for what help might be had. 

She flung herself at the creature, the need to protect overtaking all common sense. This was her family! Her home! She was _responsible for all of them_.

Pinned to the ceiling the memories came, the demon, that night... She had never had a claim on her youngest after all.

* * *

John ran up the stairs in time to see Dean's bare feet disappear into the nursery. The scream must have woken him too. Firelight danced down the darkness of the hallway. 

He hit the doorframe in seconds, watched his eldest take down the crib rail expertly—

"Dean! Take Sammy and run!" 

looked for the source of the fire— 

Mary was barely recognizable among the flames. John extended an arm slowly towards her, hopelessly, uncomprehending. She was covered in flames but not afire. She was trapped on the ceiling as if she'd fallen _up_... Gut wound! How...? How could...? 

A warm heavy weight hit his legs, and he looked down. Dean's tear streaked face floated above an angrily wailing bald little head, then was gone down the hall and stairs, furiously waddling to balance out his precious cargo. 

Adrenaline-stupid, John dragged the changing table to the middle of the room and climbed atop. He singed the back of his shoulders, tried to reach into the flames. He couldn't see her, couldn't _see her!_. 

The flames were finally spreading down the walls, windows, the doorframe. John looked around. They weren't here, the boys were outside, and his brain irrationally decided he couldn't find Mary because of course they'd all be outside together. Self-preservation is one sneaky fuck when it has to be. Then again, it made no sense that she'd be pinned to the ceiling. 

John raced out to his family. The fire licked his heels and some part of him realized this sudden expansion was just not normal. He made it out the front door to the sound of shattering glass and wood beams' warning creaks. 

Dean was running down the lawn struggling with... John scooped them both up in his arms and kept running, lest the tidal wave of unnatural fire reach this far as well. 

He didn't find Mary.

* * *

Dean was crying. Bawling, really. He didn't want to cry like baby Sammy, but he was so relieved he'd been able to protect him from the fire. It had been so scary, right above his Sammy like that. But Dean had been super-fast, like a superhero. And super-strong, even though his left arm felt a little hurty now; Sammy was heavy. 

Daddy was rocking them and Dean allowed all the cuddling because it was _his_ Daddy. Also, it was cold outside but Daddy was warm. Dean had remembered to grab Sammy's blanket along with him though, so Sammy wasn't cold. Dean had done good. 

Sammy kept crying though. So maybe Dean was doing something wrong. But he didn't know, he just didn't know. Dean cried harder. 

There were flashing lights and lots of people. Daddy's rocking was calming Sammy and the firetrucks in full swing were distracting Dean. They had really bad aim. Why couldn't they point the water at their house? The one on fire? They were making a mess of the houses on either side, instead. 

Oh, someone was talking right on top of him. To Daddy. Someone else brought over a really bright flashlight, a fuzzy blanket thwapped around Daddy's shoulders, there was a clear plastic cup someone was trying to put on their faces, hands grabbed his arm and—

" _MINE!_ He's _MY_ BROTHER! DON'T TOUCH HIM!!" 

Dean scratched them and desperately tried to hold onto Sammy with his hurty arm, but if he didn't do something fast Sammy would slip. Sammy couldn't fall! Daddy grabbed both of them tight and Dean curled Sammy further in between them. 

There was a pinch on his butt, hanging out below the blanket and far below where Daddy's arms held him securely so he could hold onto Sammy. 

Dean jerked his eyes open and fought the panic. He couldn't fall asleep! Sammy needed him! Sammy...!

* * *

Dean only spoke in glares for a week.

* * *

Missouri was hit by a wave of grief so intense she could not identify the source for a moment. This wasn't uncommon when she had appointments scheduled in the afternoons, but it was now barely dawn. 

It was nearby, though. Whatever it was, was getting closer. 

She hopped out of bed, nowhere near middle age yet and fully capable of tossing on her dress and shoes and rushing downstairs in under a minute. Someone needed help, and if they came her way she considered herself honour-bound to provide it. A gift for reading minds carried a certain responsibility with it. 

Oh, no... John Campbell was digging his children out of the backseat of his wife's muscle car. The littlest one felt like any other baby, but tired and weary beyond normal. The eldest was a confused mess of anger and something like betrayal. John... was in tatters. 

Missouri had so hoped she had been mistaken when she was driven to befriend the Campbells. Something in Mary had seemed unsettled, expectant, and Missouri believed she could help. Mary's was obviously a Hunter's mind. Missouri had thought her special brand of help could draw the poison of justified paranoia out of Mary and let her truly retire from Hunting. She had hoped the fears were overblown. 

Now she braced herself to deal with a grieving submissive, without family to help, in charge of not one but two businesses and suddenly trying to raise two small boys alone. His grief was centred around being alone, though, abandoned. There'd been a fire. Mary was not just injured, but gone. They had nothing left but that black car and the garage. 

Missouri's eyebrows raced for her hairline as she looked through the living room window and saw John put the baby in Dean's arms. It looked like much too heavy a burden. Then he reached back inside for several shopping bags, kicked the door closed; probably the necessaries they'd had to replace. 

She opened the door and let them shuffle in.

* * *

John needed time to grieve. What energy he managed to scrounge was going into keeping the garage going so he could provide for his sons. He had to work with the insurance for the house and the catering business as well, for the same reasons. 

Samuel Campbell had been distant from the rest of the family, to hear Mary tell it. The clan had been too conservative to hold with Samuel's ideas about all uterii causing submissiveness, which is a nice way of saying the Mistresses of the clan gave him a choice of castration or exile. 

After he'd died Mary had assured John she'd cut all ties with them. But... 

The Campbells were a large clan. Again, extremely conservative. If any of them caught wind that he last of Samuel's descendants were being raised by a submissive, alone, regardless of gender... If John was lucky he'd only be embroiled in a legal battle for custody. If he were unlucky, he'd have to add kidnapping to his list of nightmares. 

He might be able to keep the boys if he remarried... But he'd have to collar as well, or the scandal of marrying uncollared might be enough to sway a conservative judge. If he collared, his sons would actually belong to his new dominant. That person might well decide to willingly give up custody or be bought off. John couldn't trust anyone to own his sons. 

It's not as if he was a naturally trusting person to begin with. Before Mary, he'd never thought he could even trust anyone to own _him_. Yes, things had improved immensely since slavery was abolished and become downright peachy when the sub-liberation movement had gained ground. But mindsets did not change as fast as laws. There were still things _expected_ of a submissive. Submissive rights were largely theoretical and enforced mostly by apathy. 

Once upon a time he'd gloried in his uncollared freedom. Without Mary, he felt trapped and lonely. When had he changed so much? 

John wept the first time he had to remove his everyday collar. He was starting a work day and couldn't replace it with his work collar — it had burned in the fire. The wedding band went in the drawer too, for safety's sake. He could not afford to end up in hospital if he meant to keep his sons. 

It was a miserable week of sleeping a few hours a night in the break room, working all day, taking breaks to discuss insurance and wills. Mary had left him everything, the insurance people were stuck since the fire department couldn't name a cause for the fire, there was no point in a funeral since there were no remains and it would attract attention from people that might tell the Campbells, and he missed his sons but was avoiding them because he didn't know what to say.

* * *

Dean only spoke in glares for a week. 

Missouri tried to lighten the burden for Dean, trying to give him time to just be a child. She assured Dean she knew how to take care of a baby and he could go play or watch tv. 

She'd explain he could not warm the milk on the stove. Then busily run around the kitchen while bottle-feeding Sam with just one arm so she could avoid him jumping in to hold the baby _and_ the bottle as usual. 

She'd make excuses that his hands weren't steady enough to feed Sam solid foods, though he had almost always insisted on feeding him at least a few spoonfuls in the past. 

She'd flatly ignore him when he demanded he be allowed to change or bathe his baby brother. A four year old should not be tasked with these things. 

It had already clearly distorted his world view. Missouri hourly considered holding a seance for Mary, to ask her just what she'd thought she'd been doing letting Dean get this badly attached. 

Yes, older dominant children tended to "own" their younger siblings but it was a parent's role —a _dominant_ parent's role— to clearly mark their territory so the hierarchy was clear. It gave young dominants a sense of control to _know_ the rules. Those Campbell people had always been a little damaged, though. 

And yet again, maybe Mary's creeping expectations had warned her that there would soon only be one dominant in the household and he had a better claim to the baby. It still wasn't fair to Dean and Missouri had only allowed that behaviour in her home as long as Mary decreed it. 

Missouri was the only dominant in their lives now, and she had a responsibility to guide them well. Not that Dean was thanking her. 

Oh, no. The first day Dean had glared from no further than two feet away at all times. Missouri would have tripped over him a dozen times if she hadn't been able to read him in time to figure his position. Sometimes it really paid to have psychic eyes on the back of your head. 

And sometimes it didn't. 

The second day Dean's mental stream of childish invective had spilled from glaring over into kicking and scratching. She'd secured Sam and promptly beat some sense into the older boy. Corporal punishment was accepted as a necessary part of childraising, and lack of selfcontrol in a personality as dominant as Dean more than justified it; had to be nipped in the bud. But it still felt awful to get echoes of powerlessness from the little boy; Missouri knew it was one of the worst things a dominant could be asked to endure... and Dean had not a single memory of the feeling. Which explained a lot. 

He was sullen the rest of the day, but restrained himself to glaring from a fixed point in the room. 

The third day her home was infested by a small malevolent gargoyle. It would climb to sit on the highest chair he could find and alternately glance at Sam and glare at her. She felt like she'd get mental whiplash from the rapid changes of love-worry-mine to creative ways he wished she would injure herself. Scrapes and bruises, childish to be sure, but if Dean had understood anything about death he would have wished her to drop on the spot. 

That was Missouri's first clue that her intervention might have come too late, or she might be the wrong person for it... but she was the only one. It's not in a dominant's emotional make up to back down, though, so she pretended everything was fine to drive home the point that _her_ behaviour was normal. 

The fourth day started out much the same way, but by bedtime the boy's aura was so red and black she avoided touching him. She went to bed very late, after smudging the house to clear out the negative energies. 

The fifth night she had to do it again, but this time she checked in on Sam... who was being either smothered or crushed by his brother. 

Missouri was not proud to admit it, even to herself, but she reacted to the challenge to her authority before really _looking_. If she had, she'd have noticed that both boys were a calm vibrant blue for the first time since they'd come to her. Dean growled and scratched like a wild thing when she picked him up from the makeshift crib and put him in his own bedroom. After a good spanking he cried himself to sleep. She hung a few necklaces with bells on them from the crib. 

Two hours later she was startled awake by the softest twinkling... She might not have awoken at all, except it was such an unusual noise right inside her home. Dean was clearly trying not to cry when he was put back in the guest bed, and still Missouri, in her anger, saw only frustrated tears at the failed challenge to her dominance. 

The rest of the night became a war of attrition. Dean cried less, glared more. Missouri got coffee and vowed she would not be outstubborned by a child. 

The sixth day Sam was fussy and unsettled. Missouri blamed her own short temper for perceving him that way. That night she smudged the house and locked Sam's door. She woke up to find Dean curled on the ground in front of that door, dried tear-tracks on his face. When she checked in on Sam his aura was an orange-red mess and he looked like he'd cried himself out, but as soon as she touched him the whimpers and tears started again. 

That was her second clue. 

That night she smudged the house and also Sam's bedroom. She set a purifying charm on the bed with him. The next morning Dean was curled up on the floor again, tear-stained, and could barely manage to spare the energy to glare at her effectively. 

Sam's aura was an unrelieved red. 

That was her third clue. 

He whimpered all day, refused to drink his milk, threw up what little solid food she tricked him into swallowing, and finally wailed like a banshee when she changed his diapers. Every. Single. Time. 

Child Protective Services knocked on her door. It was a blessing Dean would not speak, because what was going through his mind would at the very least get them put into custody. 

John was called away from work, fortunately not far away. He explained his family was grieving and they probably missed their mother. Missouri could tell it galled him, but he played the helpless widowed sub, terrified of being alone and trying oh so hard. His _dominant_ nanny was in charge of the children, what more could John be expected to do? CPS were appeased; false alarms happened but it was better for all to be vigilant than miss something important. A good day was wished to all. 

When they were alone, he was anything but submissive. He was still feeling abandoned, cornered by fears of losing his sons that were now one step closer, and now betrayed by her. She had no choice but to defer to him as the parent, and what he did was pluck Sam from her arms and thrust him into Dean's greedy grip. 

He told her in terminally polite terms that himself _and Dean_ would take care of Sam just fine if it was too stressful for her. If she had any problems with Sam, she should just give him to Dean; Dean was best qualified to figure out what Sam needed, as the only surviving family member who had lived with him full-time. 

He'd never believed she could read minds. 

As Dean clutched his prize, hiding behind his father's leg, the only thing she read in him was a fierce pride that his father believed in him. 

There were no more black auras, no more need to smudge the house, and Dean learned to warm milk in a bowl of hot water from the tap.

* * *

Missouri gripped her coffee tightly, sitting at her kitchen table, looking through the door into the living room where Dean played with Sam. 

She pretended not to watch as Sam hiccoughed once and frowned with big watery eyes, sending Dean running to the corner of the room to retrieve the diaper bag. 

She made the mistake, once, of catching his eye as Sam took his bottle from Dean on the first try, with a smile. 

And for the first time in the last week she was actually glad she could read minds. Without her abilities she would not have known that the smile Dean gave her held only satisfaction but no malice. 

It was still a frightening expression on a little child's face.

* * *

John's workload was ridiculous. It was mostly paperwork and errands on top of his usual hours in the garage. The self-employed are the self-exploited and all. 

He was scrambling to find a home to rent at the beginning of next month. He had three weeks and a fairly limited commuting range. He had property taxes to pay on their old lot. He had utility bills for the previous month that still had to be paid and they were exhorbitant for a residence, but moderate for a business as busy as Mary's had been. And the home insurance had not been cleared. 

He had a sous-chef, waiters and drivers to lay off. He had cancellations to make without benefit of records or even memories of clients. He had food deliveries to pay cancellation fees for, when they showed up at a pile of ashes and panicked about what to do with their cargo of perishable food. He had supplier contracts to terminate, fortunately most without penalties due to circumstances outside his control. 

He had two insurance agencies to badger into bullying the fire department to cough up a final answer; they were dragging their feet over the formality of a Death Certificate. There were no guarantees there wouldn't be a loophole they'd try to get out of paying if the fire department waffled too long or gave the wrong answer. They could not discount arson, was the thing. John remembered the unnatural behaviour of the fire just as well as his wife impossible position, and didn't quite blame them for being unable to make heads nor tail of it. 

He had police interviews to attend. It was a suspicious fire, and a suspicious death. John had the most to gain. This was where a lingering small town mentality, small town gossip, and being one of the mechanics the police department favoured came in handy. Everybody knew the Campbells were besotted with each other, they were a perfect couple, John had always been perfectly docile and Mary did not have a single abusive bone in her body. Interviews were a formality. That was one less problem at least. 

Only an outline of a hand on a fragment of drywall had survived, barely visible under soot and water damage. Silver slag embedded at the base of the fingers matched scrapings taken from John's wedding ring. It was the closest to confirming the death they could get, and the Death Certificate was finally issued. 

John did not sleep much that first month. He took to napping in the Impala, curled up in the front seat with his head on an invisible driver's lap. It was the closest he could get to Mary. 

He finally decided it'd be therapeutic to really lavish care and attention on Mary's car, even if it'd been one of her least prized possessions. It was all he had left of her... Well, all he had left that didn't tie his stomach in knots. 

Once upon a time he would have been over the moon to be able to make actual desicions in his children's lives, to be a real parent instead of just cook and janitor. With Mary, he'd been so grateful to feel his children were safe in her care that he'd never once thought to make a desicion for them — Mary always asked for his opinion anyway, and John trusted she'd know best. 

Once upon a time he would not have been unbolting the seats from the Impala, tearing up the carpet, snapping out every vinyl covering, stripping the trunk down to metal. So he wouldn't have to think of all the ways he was failing as a submissive. He had children to care for, but was selfishly mired in his own grief. Laws changed but mindsets lingered, and he was a product of that past. At least his perfect little submissive was able to answer the calling in his blood and care for his baby brother. If he never got that in his own children (like his father and his grandfather before him), he'd always have the memories. 

Once upon a time he would not have found strange doodles inside the metal frames of the seats, behind the door covers, under the cabin carpeting. He would not have found small herb-filled bags tucked into the wiring and seat covers at he four corners of the cabin. He would not have found a false bottom to the trunk. He would not have felt his entire skin attempt to crawl off his body to slink away into a corner when he found iron pokers, chains, rock salt, bottles of water, iron knives, silver-plated knives, a machete, a shovel... Shotguns, handguns, ammo boxes by the dozen with strange markings — most looking refurbished or cast by hand. 

Once upon a time he would not have been so terrified that his mind was perfectly willing to believe the Campbells worshipped the supernatural with squiggles and herbs, and took what they wanted by force and firepower when hocus pocus did not cut it. 

Once upon a time he would not have fallen upon the old and overstuffed leatherbound diary with desperation bordering on blind faith. 

These were Mary's words, in Mary's hand. This was how she could help him understand his enemy. 

This was how, eventually, he understood just how small his world was — how much more than he'd ever imagined he really had to fear. Once he'd managed to prove to his satisfaction that it wasn't merely a record of her family's multi-generational battle with schizophrenia.

* * *

It'd been a month since Mary's death. 

The fire department had settled on electrical fire. The insurance companies were moving along slowly. The will had been read and all was in order. 

After half a night spent figuring out what the squiggles and herbs were for and another half putting it all back in place to hide them from his staff, John took the detailing of the car slowly. 

One night was dedicated to cleaning and feeding the leather and vinyl; he found overlapping bloodstains that could be only partly removed and he mixed black leather oil with some red to camouflage the sheen of the newly bared spots. Turns out there was a reason Mary liked the patina of old sweat and dirt covering most of the insides. He cleaned everything that wasn't leather with bleach. 

One night was dedicated to removing the seats again and replacing the carpeting. Cutting out the spots for for seat bolts and submissive rings set into the passenger footwells was an exacting task, almost soothing in the focus it required. He chose a burgundy so dark it was almost black, to make the seats seem more natural and because of the bloodstains on the bottom of the carpeting as well. The bare metal he scrubbed with bleach first, then he carefully traced over the squiggles with a sharpie, which looked like the original medium. 

One night he replaced the carpeting on the trunk, and also scrubbed it down with bleach and retraced the... sigils. It was awkward work full of odd angles. 

He spent a full night doing something he never imagined he'd do again — detailing firearms, sharpening knives not meant for cooking. He put it all back, hoping it didn't matter the water was surely stale and the salt might be slowly turning into a single large crystal. He kept the herbs out so he could identify and label them, maybe replace anything necessary once he figured out if there was a particular freshness required. 

No, he didn't believe in the supernatural per se. But it had been difficult for arson to be discounted as a possibility... and if the Campbells knew something John didn't in the use of innocuous things to cause damage or they could be dissuaded from interfering by use of sigils and herbs, then John would oblige. 

John did believe in the power of weapons, even unconventional ones. And he did believe in human malice. 

Missouri and her contacts turned out to be a good resource when it came to learning about the Campbell's likely beliefs in herbs and whatnots. 

The sigils it took him longer to learn about. He studied them at night in his new home, while his boys slept the night away in their room. There would be talk if he tried the local library for such things, so he poured over Mary's diary. There were cryptic contact lists, which he might have to risk. There was a stack of impossible IDs with Mary's face and many different names, so the contacts were likely not all on the up-and-up. He'd avoid the ones crossed out and tagged with "Cam" on the suspicion they'd been compromised by involvement with the Campbells. 

He finally settled on a few different fake names for himself and called up some of the numbers from public phones. Rufus was a paranoid man who asked lots of questions, answered none of his, and hung up on him. Caleb was a little more polite, but remained an enigma. Daniel was downright friendly in comparison, but when John brought up that he was doing research on a vandalized car with arcane tags he kindly shut him down. After a few more dead ends, and still being no wiser as to what services any of these people provided, Harvelle turned out to possibly be a Roadhouse — still a cagey sort of people, and possibly just a place to call and ask to pass the phone to a person going by a fake name. At this point, that sort of arrangement would surprise John not at all. 

Every cold call was nerve-wracking. He'd never had cause to do much lying except to his mother and he was learning on the job, possibly also burning bridges. 

It'd been two months since Mary's death by the time his daily intestinal-agony-inducing call to Singer Salvage turned out to actually be Singer Salvage, he could not catch the man in a lie about car knowledge. Robert Singer, however, caught John out. 

"A friend of mine's married to a mechanic, could be he could help you out with parts to replace what was vandalized."

"Oh? That... that would be great, yes." John had an idea he should in fact not call any such person. The way these people were it might just be a setup for hit of some sort. Also? He'd been indulging in way too many insommnia-induced tv marathons. 

"Yeah, she's out Kansas way. You're in Kansas, right?" 

Shit. Shit shit _shit_. Had he said that? "Close enough as makes no difference. Sure." 

"Okay, well, it'll save you on shipping. Try this garage in Lawrence. Win-something, Wesson maybe. Let me find—" 

John slammed the phone down. SHIT! That was a dead giveaway. Fuck! He was such an amateur. Way in over his head. 

He ran back to work and unplugged the phones. Work contacts be damned, John needed his sanity intact so he could _think_. It was all well and good to have good intentions to protect his boys, and talking himself into most of a month of cold-calls seemed harmless enough when it was all dead-ends. 

What would that Singer man do? He sounded pretty bossy. Would he just get angry at the rudeness of the call and forget all about helping that man who needed to fix a vandalized car? Was he once close friends with Mary and would show up with a shotgun and a baggie of voodoo? Would he figure that if Mary was in danger it was worth it to call the Campbells in on it? 

He picked up the kids from Missouri's and then a bottle of tequila and a bag of limes. Once he made sure Dean's canned soup had been safely heated and served, and the jar of baby food opened, he gathered up a load of laundry and hid in the basement. The world became quite a bit wobblier and he couldn't blame it entirely on sitting atop the washer during a spin cycle. Hey, the laundry was done now, even if the folds lacked military precision... or anything resembling straight lines. 

The housework was soothing, so him and Cuervo cleaned the kitchen and the fridge, tidied up the living room, and left citrusy sticky fingerprints all over the bathroom while trying to find where in the world the toilet cleaner had gone off to. Probably had grown little voodoo chicken feet and ran off screaming "wheee!" 

Dean-o was standing in the doorway, looking displeased. Maybe he didn't like bottles running around the house either. Who knows what mischief they got into alone here all day? Dean-o had a point. 

John's best boy was of the opinion night time was for bedtime, not cleaning. He kind of had a point there, too. He was quite pointy tonight. Sleep would be nice. 

Dean led him to bed and tucked him in, quite authoritative for a submissive if John did say so himself. And he did. He did say it. Dean smiled and patted his Daddy on the head, and John liked that. Dean-o is the best head-patter ever and he should know that so John said it. Dean's grin was... just everything. 

John fell asleep thinking of his son's happy grin at being praised, and forgot the circumstances, remained oblivious to the bossiness.

* * *

"Winchester Garage. My name is Daniel. How can I help you?" 

Argh. Even the dulcet tones of his receptionist grated on his raw nerves this morning. He'd only work a two-day week if he just took to skipping work for simple hangovers, though. 

"Yes, of course! You're in luck, he's just in." 

Complex hangovers though... John might need a clause for those, because the unrelenting chirping of joy that came out of Daniel's mouth was likely to— 

"John! It's a supplier asking for you!" 

It was a testament to how much pain John was really wading through that he couldn't risk growling at Daniel for shouting. That much vibration could have serious consequences for his brain's delicate condition. He settled for snatching the phone extension on the workfloor before he could be "paged" again. This room _echoed_.

"Hi." Wow, he was downright chatty today. John was so glad it wasn't a client. 

"John Campbell? I've been wondering if you could tell me where my friend Mary has got to? Your Mistress is not answering her phone at home or at work." 

John was very sober, very suddenly. 

The silence stretched on. 

"John? Is Mary all right? Answer me, son." The command had a military flavour to it, despite the endearment. 

A lifetime of conditioning, civilian and military, made John answer before his brain really came back online. "No,sir. There was a fire, sir." 

John's brain was finally considering the merits of a panic attack versus outright fainting. One would draw more attention, but the other had the benefit of defintely ending the conversation. 

"The boys, John, did they make it out?" Urgency. 

John could not contemplate declaring his sons dead, maybe jinxing them, so he said "Yes. Yes, sir," and wondered if that had been the right answer. If he'd said no, would they have stopped looking for him? 

"Thank God..." 

There were questions, a couple of stories, a few orders. John was on autopilot. He slowly realized he'd panicked so far as to slip into subspace. His staff started trickling in, the call ended, John shuffled off to hide under the hood of a car; being on the workfloor was like a standing order to do his usual job. He moved things around, hoped he was doing more good than harm. 

Things fell into place in his head, words finally parsing into decisions and consequences. How long ago? John should absolutely not publish an obituary or make a public invitation to funeral or memorials. Had any remains been cremated? Had the will been read? Smart of Mary to not mention them in the will so they did not have to be called in. Yes, the Campbells would definitely want the boys. Robert would send them all new IDs from birth certificates up. They'd be the Winchesters, no official paper trail for anyone to track. What was his mailing address? Robert had heard of Missouri and would be contacting her. John should start withdrawing money from his accounts a bit at a time. Had he sold the lot where the house used to be? Did he know anyone who could buy the garage on short notice? 

Robert Singer seemed to know quite well the life Mary's people moved in. He considered them a real threat. He was taking immediate steps to safeguard all three of them. In less than a week plus whatever time John needed to liquidate his assets, they'd be safer than they'd been in months. 

John walked calmly to a bathroom stall and sat down. Then had a brief but thorough nervous breakdown. 

He'd failed to be a good submissive parent — Dean must have been running on instinct, because he'd clearly been able to learn nothing useful from John. Now he'd failed to be a good parent at all, let his kids live in danger for two whole months, and had either just horribly endangered them one last time or accidentally saved them by bowing completely to a strange dom's will... tearing down their whole lives in the process. 

John's tears spilled and he shook, but he realized he'd best take the risk to go through with these plans. If nothing else, new IDs with no trails, a large stack of untraceable cash money, and the Impala in excellent condition would amount to a new start anywhere. Preferably far away. Preferably safe from the Campbells and CPS and everyone. 

Winchesters against the world. His mother would be so proud.

* * *

It'd been almost three months since the fire that took Mary. 

Missouri had vetoed Robert as a sound option. John took the reassurance and avoided thinking about how a supposed psychic would overlap with a salvage yard enough to have grounds to veto one way or another. 

Everything had been sold, all insurance and lawyering was finished, the accounts had been drained to a few hundred dollars and left to die, and the bags were packed. His landlord had the keys and notice as of this morning, Daniel would miss him, his other employees grumbled about working for a new boss — even if the new boss was a dom. 

Loading nine-month-old Sam and four (and a half!) year old Dean securely into their car seats, driving into the sunset and safety... was anticlimactic.

* * *

**John Winchester and sons**

John parked the Impala on a random empty spot in the front yard of a dilapidated two-storey farmhouse. He turned off the engine after a moment, and stared ahead. Was he really going to go through with this? 

Days of driving along back roads to confuse the issue and give no real clues to the final destination, of pulling off the road in lonely places to sleep in the car so they didn't leave a trail of motels in his new/old name, stolen hours of grandma-level careful driving to give Dean a chance to snuggle Sam out of his car seat for a little while so he wouldn't get too bored and cry, three-hour bursts of driving and tiresome gas station food breaks interspersed with the random need for diaper changes. 

And here they were. 

But were they safe now? 

A large dog with far too many teeth greeted them first, loudly, from the end of his long chain. A middle aged man shouldering a shotgun came out to the porch and propped the door open. 

John took a deep breath and reached for the door. 

"Daddy?" 

"Stay here, Dean. It'll be okay." 

John looked over his shoulder to see Dean gripping his baby brother's hand. John wished he could hold hands too. He threw a quick grin at Dean just to watch his little shoulders relax some and stepped out of the car.

* * *

John had forgotten how much he hated living in a dom's home. Anyone not Mary. 

He was told what time breakfast happened at, much too late to suit him and much too badly cooked. He was told to go on errands into town, though to be fair Robert ran about half the errands on his own. He was told to come out and help on this car or that heap of scrap. He was told to clean the kitchen or do the laundry himself if it bothered him so much when things piled up. He was complimented when he'd slept well, shaved, and even bothered with makeup. 

It wasn't being given orders that galled him. It was that he fucking well liked it. He had to kill smiles after they'd already started spreading on his face at the compliments. He yes-sirred and no-sirred and kept the dishes done. 

The only good thing he could find in his knee-jerk reactions was that he was a good example to his son. 

Dean had picked up on "sir" as a term of respect, so John taught him women were called "ma'am". It was a little disconcerting to hear his own son say "Yes, sir," to him; nobody had ever sirred him. Even in the military he'd never made it past the lowest rank. But he had to admit it would help make good cover if he ever tried to pass in public — at least as a switch. 

Dean had learned that everybody did chores when the dom said so and took helping his Daddy around the house seriously. John realized then that Mary had never had cause to order him around outside of bed; maybe he'd not been crap at his role after all. 

Robert kept them from public interference, let John work on the cars to earn their his keep and not drain his savings, taught John what the sigils meant and let him read in the library to his heart's content, and set up John with a homeschooling program so Dean would not have to show his face in town too much. If they started early with Dean's education he'd be able to pass the exams on time despite any delays caused by his teachers' lack of experience.

People in town knew Singer had a new submissive living with him, but other than tall-dark-and-handsome they'd not seen him enough to tell him apart from any other stranger. The salvage yard was far out of town and nobody had bothered to nose around closely enough to notice the little boy and the baby than hung out on the little patch of grass just below the back porch. The Impala sat safely in a garage, out of view of the road. 

The routine remained fairly peaceful for a few weeks, interrupted only by calls on the many phones which only Robert answered and bizarre research quests that John took part in out of a need to keep up with whatever the Campbells might come up with next. 

After a while, John was rather fed up with the stress of trying to keep up with the stories crazies came up with. Judging by the age of some of Robert's books, the crazies had been at it a long time and weren't very original; they kept recycling names and themes. Was there really anything else for him to learn here? Any reason to keep his life on hold like this? 

This is possibly why, when Robert said there was a little poltergeist problem in the next town over and he'd be back by tomorrow night at the latest, John felt he'd had enough of the lies. He left Dean with orders to be safe and take care of Sammy —absolutely redundant— and tailed Robert from as far away as he could. 

The man spent the day in a library, and John ate his way through most of his gas-station stash of junk food. At least libraries were no more fun than stake outs. 

Robert wandered through empty back roads in this nowhere town, forcing John to drop so far back he was following the plumes of dirt Robert's truck lifted into the air like smoke signals. He nearly lost the his quarry, then as he was looking for it in the horizon nearly missed that it was parked right in the driveway to an empty field. His cover probably blown, John parked the Impala next to it. The sun was setting already, he was just glad the trip had not gone on longer or been later in the year or he'd be good and lost by now with to way to track Robert. 

There were well cared for farmhouses on either side of the lot, a few more dotted here and there along the road. The remnants of some sort of outbuilding blocked his view of one half of the back of the lot so John figured that's where Robert had gone. Grabbing a flashlight and shotgun from the trunk, just to be safe, he followed. 

A shot rang out. John crouched low and ran fast. He found Robert near a fairly small brick building, or what was left of it, sweeping the air above the ground with a book... No, a box of some sort, making crackly noises at different pitches. He was seemed to be following the crackling like a hot-cold signal. John nearly lost his shit right there — _this_ kind of crazy was what was keeping him and his sons safe from the other crazies?? 

Then he actually lost his shit. 

As the crackling became a steady whine, a blue man in white clothes stepped out of thin air and charged Robert. John's friend dropped the whiny box and tried to swing his shotgun around to bear but John shot faster and hit centre mass. Except maybe he didn't, because the thing wasn't there anymore. 

"John??!"

"What the fuck, Robert? What the everloving fuck??" John would have waved his arms in the air for emphasis of just how big a fuck he meant, but he really didn't want to take his firearm out of position. And there absolutely was _not_ warm wetness between his butt cheeks. 

"Cover me, John!" Robert ran for a pile of something by the brick wall. 

" 's it coming _back??_ " John could swear his eyes were so far open in the growing dusk that he could see 360 degrees around him. 

"It's gonna go for me most like!" Robert ran and panted under the awkward weight of a shovel, a shotgun, and a heavy-looking duffel. 

"Most like??" John really fucking wished he could stop hoarsely shouting stupid questions. He jerked around to do a quick sweep behind himself — no way-too-white dudes sneaking up. He turned back around. Where the fuck were they hiding? 

Robert was furiously digging in the random patch of ground marked by the black box as the shriekiest spot. John crept closer to the sound of shoveling even as he swiveled around to try and cover all sides. 

After a few minutes, John began to lose his adrenaline. "Robert? How long's this usually take?" 

"Depends how far down the bones are buried."

"We're digging up bones." Not a question, but not quite a statement of fact. 

"Yup, poor idjit got himself offed at this here slaughterhouse and buried in a, hopefully, shallow grave." More shoveling. 

"Human bones." 

"Sure ain't a cow haunting these here families. Someone mentioned it to a friend, who mentioned it to a Hunter, who passed the job to me on account of it's in my back yard. So to speak." 

"This is not what the books say a poltergeist does... Is it?" John kept swiveling. It was better than walking the perimeter of their excavation in his... pants situation. 

"Nah, telephone game sucks balls is all. An' not in a good way. This here is a good ol' ghost." Dirt kept shifting, Robert was starting to pant in earnest now. 

"So... you dig it back out?" 

"Nope. Get to the bones, salt an' burn 'em." 

"Oh." If they kept having their chat uninterrupted they might as well bring out tea and biscuits and have a starlit picnic. John chuckled weakly, a little hysterically. 

"Got 'im! Okay, just have to bare them all—" 

John shot at the thing. It flickered out. His pulse skyrocketed. He dove for the loaded shotgun. "I didn't think to bring reloads, Robert." 

"We're good. We're okay. Now just a little of this... an' a little of—" 

John shot his last shell, was about to panic in earnest, when the ghost reappeared and it was far too late for anything but horror as the silently raging thing— completely disappeared. 

His hearing came back when Robert tapped his shoulder from a safe distance away. "John? Johnny?" 

John gave a short whimper in reply. Turned around slowly to see a sizeable firepit, flames feeding on apparently nothing but thin air. Or... on the ex-contents of that there gas can on the ground. His suspend-disbelief was a little out of whack right now. 

"We're good to go, Johnny. That's it." 

"Okay. Okay." John bent down to help carry the weapons as Robert tossed the gas can and the black box in the duffel and picked up the shovel. 

They reached the cars and threw Robert's things on the back of his truck under a tarp, then John wandered to the Impala's trunk in a daze to deposit his own weapon. He should always carry reloads from now on. 

He could drive back wearing no underwear; it'd be too disgusting to sit for hours like this. Still staring at the open trunk for an explanation of just what the fuck had happened tonight, John quickly unlaced his boots and toed them off. 

He dropped his pants and boxers, considering how easy it'd be to just keep a damned change of clothes handy in the trunk. His brain was broken; it kept thinking these were normal contingencies to plan for. And his cock was happily waving in the cold night air, much too happy for several close calls and an autumn night. It was broken too; John blamed the adrenaline. 

He wiped himself clean and balled up the soiled boxers into a corner of the trunk, wincing. No wonder the carpeting in this poor car had been a biohazard. He should keep plastic bags around too. He smiled hard at the empty space. He was fucking losing it. 

"How'd you know to bring salt rou...?" Robert had rounded the end of his truck and now had a clear view of John, all six foot of him leaning over and braced on the edge of the trunk, bare from the waist down except for his now filthy socks. 

Trying to hide any remaining embarrassing evidence, he quickly stood and turned to hide his ass. Presenting his junk. His far past chub and into ready for fun junk. John shivered under Robert's frank appraisal — his cock decided to telegraph its approval. 

"John...?"

* * *

He tried really hard not to speed. Robert was tailing him to make sure he didn't get lost following the truck in the dark or... something. John really didn't need the man on his ass. 

There was a noise. A groan or a whimper? John shut his face. 

He would not freak. He would not freak. He'd played around before. Okay, so it'd been with other subs, but there'd been guys. There had! Just... it was different. And now he had to go back to live in Robert's house, and not remember those hands. Demanding and large. Everywhere. 

Beards were not sexy. They just weren't. They tickled and burned by turns. He didn't like them. Not one bit. Not the way it'd got in the way of— 

GAH! No! Not thinking. Just not thinking. He was totally fine. They'd both been a little crazy. It'd taken Robert a full minute after the fireworks had gone off to even ask about the kids. 

Of course then they'd rushed about to get on the road. John's boots were still not laced up.

* * *

John had no choice, not yet. He had to learn to kill all the bogey men so he could handle whatever the Campbells threw at his family next time. They must have caused the fire somehow. 

The submissive stood braced against the wall for his discipline, fresh pants and everything rucked down to his knees. It wasn't a kind of pain he liked; the humiliation of a punishment had always been enough to kill any happy feelings brought on by endorphins. 

He should've known giving an inch to a dom would give him all sorts of ideas. The man already ruled their lives, and here John had idiotically given Robert his body as well. 

The boys were in the next room so they understood it had not been okay for them to be left alone a whole day. It didn't mean much for Sammy. Dean heard each slap of the belt on skin. He remembered Missouri's. 

Dean never forgave Robert. 

Neither did John.

* * *

John trained for endurance. He ran every morning until his legs shook. 

He trained for strength, like the doms in his unit — not like the subs had been trained, much gentler exercises just so they didn't feel left out but never bulking them up beyond what most dominants would find acceptable. Fuck them all. 

He practiced with the shotgun and handguns, getting his aim up to his active duty scores. Then surpassing them. 

He learned to use a crossbow and a short bow. Went carefully through the katas he'd been taught and learned to spar with Robert, who fought dirty and chastised him for fighting like supernatural nasties would bother to fight with honour. They practiced with dulled knives as well, and eventually John gave more bruises than he got. Since he'd be carrying knives, John decided he'd teach himself to throw them as well. 

He learned to cast bullets, to repack rounds with salt or whatever the bogey of the day might require. He learned to forge IDs, and he learned how to replenish his arsenal from convenient sources along the road. 

Dean watched it all, Sam in his lap. 

Dean ran laps every morning, always with line of sight to Sammy. 

Sam learned to walk. 

Dean practiced throwing rocks hard enough to knock over dirt-filled cans ten feet away. With either hand. 

Sam learned to throw. 

John figured they could both use the exercise, and packed the Impala for contingencies during hunts. 

On the summer day Robert finally pronounced him ready to second an experienced hunter on a serious job, John hugged his boys goodbye and realized they'd missed Christmas and both boys' birthdays. He promised himself to bring them back something. 

He came back with eight stitches, a dozen bruises, and a couple of superhero dolls. Dean picked Batman, so Sam got to be Spiderman.

* * *

Robert was at his wit's end. Dean was doing a great job of teaching Sam everything he learned during homeschooling lessons, but the sweet child that listened attentively to his father and did as he was bid was just gone. 

Robert tried splashing him with holy water a couple of times and go hideous glares for his trouble, but no hissing skin, no blackout eyes. 

Dean didn't play, he trained. He ran laps in the morning, climbed trees, made his own obstacle courses, made a game out of katas for Sam so they could pretend to spar, wrestled, and kept his stone-throwing sharp. 

When asked what he was so set on fighting, Dean said he had to protect Dad and Sammy. Robert might wonder if it had anything to do with what he'd seen in the fire, but the venom in his eyes when he answered the Hunter broadcast quite clearly where he thought the real threat resided. 

Robert went back to research and tried to make sense of the extensive and conflicting advice on raising a switch. 

When John came back, Robert told him how it was. At first John denied the thing as an impossibility, then got a calculating look in his eye. "Fine. If it'll keep him safe he can act as dominant as he likes," he'd said. 

Robert could not for love nor money figure out what was going through the older Winchesters' heads. Why were there so fixated on "safe" and why did John think his son had to "act"? It's just the way he was born! Missouri cautioned they'd been damaged to begin with, and their dynamics would require serious therapy and commitment to reach an understanding of the social contract everyone else took for granted. 

It was quite simple, really. John knew his son was a submissive, but he also knew that submissives were treated like trash by everyone with a smidgeon of power. If his son had learned to act dominant when he didn't feel safe, then John felt he had managed to teach him something truly worthwhile after all. 

And if he learned early enough, maybe he could pass his whole life. Be safe, his whole life.

* * *

Robert was heartbroken, but he didn't own them so he let them go. 

He cursed himself for a fool, for having ruined things with John when they'd only just begun. He'd been too worried about the kids, too much in his domspace. Drunk on power and sick with worry. A bad combination. 

Most submissives would have understood and taken the punishment as loving correction. Most submissives would not have left young children unattended. John Winchester was not most submissives. 

At least he knew they'd be safe with Jim Murphy. One of those rare non-dynamic people that got drafted into religious orders since the beginning of time, like there was nowhere else for them to fit into society. But he was a good resource to Hunters, and Blue Earth was a good place for the boys to grow up. 

He received reports of them doing well in homeschooling. Sam had proven to be academically precocious, Dean thought that you had to understand things to fight them and so you had to exercise your brain. 

Sam now joined Dean in running laps, even if his shorter legs meant he always fell behind. Dean had been practicing with bb guns. Sam was a holy terror with rocks. 

The boys had forgotten to mention their birthdays. Jim only found out when Dean corrected Sam and told him to remember that he was now three, not two. Jim threw a party for both of them. They loved the cake but hated the crowd. 

Sam was finally potty trained — once Dean got the hang of convincing Sam since nobody else was allowed to go potty with him. No, it wasn't Dean's possessiveness... not entirely. If even John tried to take Sam into the bathroom the boy would just wail and refuse to cooperate. 

Dean refused to learn to bike until his father had explained it's faster than running and sometimes you need that before you're sixteen and can drive a car. Besides, this way he could actually carry Sam and they'd both go faster than they could run. Dean was now regularly going on biking expeditions with Sam esconced in the handlebars. 

Months went by and Robert itched to tend to the long laundry list of injuries John was collecting on his hunts. 

Dean turned eight and got his first real firearm. He pretended that his bb gun had been real too; Jim had chastised him for lying and Dean had argued if he could kill squirrels and birds with it then it was a real weapon. Jim let it go. Robert had to agree there was a logic to it. Dean carried that rifle out to a safe area to use as a shooting range every day. 

Sam turned four. He didn't want a cake, he wanted a pie to share with Dean. He most definitely did not want a party. Dean ate most of the pie and got sick. Sam laughed himself sick. 

Jim caught Sam throwing actual throwing knives. He wasn't hitting much, but he wasn't slicing himself open so Jim figured it's what John would want. John was indeed proud when he came out convalescing from what might have been a concussion. 

They moved on from Blue Earth. Reports came here and there of John Winchester, working up a steady monster bodycount. Nobody had seen or heard from the boys.

* * *

Robert was unloading his truck to do some routine maintenance on the tools of his trade when a loud rumble announced the approach of a classic muscle car. 

He turned around to meet the new arrivals, hand casually draped into the bed of the truck holding a shotgun ready. It might have been a ghost, but it looked just like...

John unfolded himself from the car, seven years older and just as beautiful as Robert had ever seen him. His black hair was shorn close to the scalp, and Robert missed the soft black curls with a frightening intensity. His skin looked worn, there were new scars at his neck, and there was not a trace of makeup in sight. 

As John approached him Robert knew a moment of dissonance; this man did not move like John. He'd always been fit, so it wasn't that... Could it be injuries? As John planted himself confidently four feet in front of Robert, the difference became obvious: this man moved like a pure dominant. 

Heart breaking all over again, Robert extended his hand for a shake. Got one. 

"Hey, Robert. My girl's making a racket. Mind if we crash here for a bit while I get her sorted?" 

"No," too hoarse. Robert cleared his throat and tried again. "Not at all, you boys are always welcome. Guess I can't get away with skipping dinner tonight, huh?" 

John chuckled. "No, I guess not. I could deal with just a few beers, but Dean is in the middle of a growth spurt and Sam is in the middle of a whiny phase. But then again, he always is." 

Robert smiled politely and felt like he'd need something stronger than beer to deal with this visit. 

"I'll pitch in extra to feed 'em bottomless pits."

Before Robert could answer, Dean hopped out of the car on some unspoken signal. "Heya, Bobby!" He turned away to open Sam's door. 

John tensed, Dean hesitated. Then the older boy yanked the door open and dragged his baby brother out by the scruff of his jacket. Sam sort of hung there still holding onto his book, caught sight of John, then elbowed his brother off. 

Everyone but Robert smiled easily.

* * *

Robert, always the insomniac like many other Hunters, wandered down the hallway late at night. He noticed Dean's door was open. 

Peeking in to make sure everything was all right, he was caught off guard by the sight of Dean sprawled so far on top of Sam it was a wonder the boy was breathing. The arm Dean has sprawled over Sam's shoulders followed the line of the younger boy's arm and ended in a firm grip around the wrist. Sam's expression could only be described as contentment. 

Robert backed away, his gut feeling not unlike what he'd imagine it would feel to watch the ground coming after the parachute had failed.

* * *

This much older Sam puzzled Robert, who had never really gotten to know a toddler and watched him grow up. Was this a natural progression of personality development or a different kind of "damage"? As Missouri called it. 

He was the quiet, bookish sort. He was always respectful, even when he was clearly displeased about the food or the rude jokes Dean regaled their father with. He was serious and conscientious about his fitness and weapons training. 

He only shined when he thought he was alone cleaning the weapons, mending tears in their clothing and humming to himself. He glowed when John was busy elsewhere and Dean would poke and prod him to come see what he'd learned about the Impala today, to come wash the car with him. 

In only a few days Robert noticed that Dean was far more courteous when he thought he was alone with his brother. He'd casually open doors for Sam, steer him with a hand on his back; he'd poke and cuff but never hard enough for Sam to do more than startle and smile. Sam would always smile... poor child was touch-starved. 

Sam was gentle, Dean was gentle with Sam... which made it that much more impossible to reconcile with the pod persons at meal times and during supervised training. 

Dean would rile his baby brother up, Sam would finally reach some arbitrary level of impatience that was not reflected in his face then say something witty and cutting in return. Dean's face would flash with hurt then he'd smile and make a joke of it. 

Dean would steal Sam's food, and Sam would sigh and give every appearance of fighting to get it back. It was a good show, but Sam really wasn't into it. Sometimes John would look up and frown forbiddingly at Sam. 

More group meals and group training sessions than not, Sam would finish and ask to be excused to go read, or nap, or do anything he could alone. Those times Dean would grit his teeth, blink rapidly, and refuse to meet anyone's eyes for a while. 

By the time they hit the road again, Robert was emotionally drained. John seemed to have hit a level of desperation he translated into energy, then used that to exhude something like confidence — upon careful consideration it could be seen to be reckless challenge. Dean seemed to be trying to meet everyone's needs at the same time, even when they conflicted. Robert could not figure out if a switch was particularly well suited to the task or would shatter under the pressure more easily. 

Sam was the heartbreaking story of John Winchester the Second in the making. He was obviously a pure submissive, but had learned to act as a dominant to please his elders. Perhaps John kept expecting him to have the same success as his elder son, despite only Dean having a natural inclination to dominance. 

Robert kicked himself daily over it. If he'd gotten to know the ways John was broken first, instead of barging in where angels fear to tread, he might have given them a stable home.

That ship had long ago sailed. Even if this brittle reckless John still appealed to him, John was nowhere near reckless enough to trust Robert with his body again.

* * *

Dean wandered back from the party to the motel, hoping he'd remember to make the right turns in this new town. 

They were all new towns. 

The only way he could meet people his age to hook up with was by crashing house parties. He'd gotten good at spotting them. 

Older submissives he could find anywhere without aid of alcohol but they'd never give the time of day to a boy that was sixteen and looked it. He just didn't have the experience to attract them - or much of a toy kit, to be honest. 

Older dominants he could find on any sidewalk of any town just by bending at the waist to re-tie his bootlace, but the sort of people who'd want to take a kid home were absolutely not to be trusted. 

For that matter, dominants his age were a different kind of danger and most definitely not to be trusted. There were schools all over the world where people could learn skills in dominance or submission, where they could learn the limits of what they could give while maintaining control or what they could take before safewording. In Dean's income bracket? There was basic sex-ed at schools, and from witness accounts in the dozens all over the country it was all talk no practice — not even on dummies. 

He had no idea how submissives his age dared date at all. For that matter he was both flattered and apalled when his advances on just that demographic were not rebuffed. They would not trust someone they'd just met enough to scene, and for their sake he was grateful. But since he did not have the time to build up the trust required, they were forever outside of his reach. 

This meant the sum total of his love life was crashing parties and making out with a submissive. Sometimes he'd get away with heavy petting. Sometimes more than one submissive would want to make out with him — something about safety in numbers. But even if he was offered more, Dean refused politely. 

After all, he would never want his sweet submissive Sammy to offer that kind of trust only to be tossed aside when the jerk leaves town the next day or even that same night. 

Honestly, he wouldn't even bother to try to date, except Dad insists it is part of his cover in passing as a dominant. Dean doesn't think he'll ever have the heart to let his Dad in on the secret that Dean _is_ dominant. Part-time. Basically, with anyone that's not Dad. Or that evil woman, Missouri, who always gives him the willies. Dad would probably just pat himself on the back for so successfully brainwashing him. 

Dean's meandering finally got him back to his temporary home, so he goes into the room quietly so as to not wake up anyone. The room is dark, Dad's bed is empty, and Sammy is curled up into a little ball way under all the blankets on their bed. At least Dad's been getting queens instead of doubles, but if Sammy keeps growing like this things are going to get either awkward or expensive — two rooms a night expensive. Considering how risky it is for Dad to hustle bars alone, when anyone could figure out his secret and might successfully drop him into subspace just to screw him out of the money and then screw him... Dean's betting on awkward. 

Might as well minimize the awkward to just early mornings, though. 

He bypasses the beds to climb into a nice hot shower with his best buddy, Right Hand. Oh, who is he kidding? It's always a party, Left Hand hates being "left" out. Ahahahahah...

**Author's Note:**

> SEQUELS REQUESTED
> 
> The more Destiel spin-offs the merrier. 
> 
> The more Wincest the better. 
> 
> If it somehow floats your boat, feel free to write Mary/John timestamps or Bobby/John timestamps, because I sure won't. 
> 
> Jim/John timestamps would be valid, but I'm expecting epic badsex, fyi. Or unicorn-rare tendersex.
> 
> Missouri/John would not be a timestamp, just you making me alternately laugh and be horrified because in this fic they're oil and water. 
> 
> Do you want more weeping and tearing of the hair? Feel free to rewind and go from there, or take off from this ending and screw the boys over worse - but put all your dire warnings in please!!!


End file.
